Agent Triple Zero
by Blood Dark Sun
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, British Secret Service agent, has been sent to the Alpine headquarters of his archnemesis, the notorious Mafia criminal "Romano" Vargas, with instructions to kill him - or to lose his life in the attempt. Rated for language and innuendo.


Arthur Kirkland, Agent 000 (known as "Triple Zero" in MI6, but often given other, less-flattering appellations by his enemies), parachuted from a private helicopter about two kilometers from his destination. After making a safe landing, he buried the parachute in the snow and hiked on to the target building. The air was still; as he glanced down the mountainside to the town below, it seemed a hushed, peaceful place. No one would ever guess that the notorious Mafioso, "Romano" Vargas, had his aerie atop this mountain, here in the Italian Alps.

The agent wore all white, including a white parka with white fox fur hood. It was beautifully warm and had many pockets for all his gear. Special heat-reflective sunglasses protected his emerald eyes as he crept towards Vargas' HQ.

Word had come to M that Vargas had developed a new machine, a 'Doomsday Device' of sorts, to brainwash entire countries into doing his bidding. The King of Spain had complained that Spanish farmers were delivering entire tomato crops to the base of this mountain; the Spanish economy was suffering as a result. Kirkland knew he had to disable this device, if it existed, and destroy the plans to recreate it. This part of the mission didn't bother him at all.

He successfully ducked and rolled through the laser grid surrounding Vargas' headquarters, successfully entered the building, dodged guards, entered locked rooms. This was almost humdrum work for the expert agent Triple Zero. Finding a janitorial closet, he stripped off his outdoor gear and stowed it; wet footprints would alarm the Italian's guards and give the game away.

Soon, padding in stealthy feet, he'd entered the room that was obviously the command center of this new location. Vargas had no guards in here – in fact, the room was suspiciously empty. Kirkland wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so he quickly knelt down, crawling under a cabinet full of machinery, and used the multiple functions of his laser watch to open a control panel and sear the electronics inside to a crisp.

Just as he was about to back away from the panel, he felt a knifelike pain across his arse. "Bloody hell!" he muttered, trying to rise and bonking his head on the console above him. The pain was not repeated; he backed out of the small enclosure awkwardly to see what had hurt him.

A large, fluffy cat sat smirking – yes, _smirking_ at him, licking its paw negligently. Kirkland reached back to his arse and found that the seat of his expensive snowboarding trousers had been shredded to ribbons, presumably by this cat's claws. He lunged for the beast angrily.

The cat padded out of reach, unconcerned, until it met a pair of dark-clad legs terminating in expensive shoes. Bollocks. Kirkland glanced up from his crouched position and met the twinkling amber eyes of his archnemesis, Romano, who had that one annoying strand of hair sticking out to the side as always. "So, Double-O-Nothing," the Italian sneered. "Foiled in your heroic attempts by _my cat_." He laughed without a trace of real humor.

Kirkland loathed this man. For a few years, since Vargas' arrival on the international crime scene, the two of them had grappled, neither able to decisively overcome the other. If it hadn't been for this bloody Italian, 000 would have been promoted long before this. But M continued to withhold that promotion until the international criminal Vargas would no longer be a threat. Kirkland clenched his teeth. Maybe he could defeat the git today and get that sodding promotion, finally.

"I've not been foiled," he stated with a wry grin. "Your device has been disabled." He rose, to put himself on an equal footing with his enemy, but faced the man, to keep the shredded fabric of his trousers out of sight. That would definitely lower his credibility.

"So," Vargas nodded, stepping closer. "And now, alone here in my command center, you, my archnemesis, the expert in unarmed combat, will – what? Will you kill me?"

These calmly-uttered words infuriated the agent, though he tried not to show it. Countless times he'd had Vargas at his mercy, and for some reason had always avoided killing the man. Countless lectures had he received, at Vauxhall Cross, about his license to kill. "The situation was unfavorable for his termination," Kirkland had always replied. And he had always believed that. Believed that Vargas had truly had the upper hand with him, every time they'd met before.

But that was true. Every encounter before this had seen the Italian flanked by rows of henchmen, sometimes with a few scantily-clad beauties parading on his arm, while Kirkland had been one man, alone against the crowd. To preserve himself to serve the free world, he'd always fled, rather than attempting to take down his enemy and risk his life in the process.

And so M had directed him to either kill Vargas or lose his life in the attempt, this time. Kirkland was not nervous, but he didn't want to die. And so he stood dithering before the master criminal, who had bent to scoop up the cat in his arms.

Blast. If 000's thoughts hadn't been a million miles away, he could have easily killed the man when he'd bent down for the cat!

The eerie silence of the command center percolated into his consciousness. Why was this room unattended, and why hadn't Vargas called for backup? The man was as supple and slender as a reed; a man of thought, not a man of action. Did he seriously think he could take down Arthur Kirkland, Agent Triple Zero, in hand-to-hand combat? The blond repressed a snort of derision.

The cat did not want to be held. It leaped down and padded off somewhere, leaving the two men facing each other. Kirkland glared into those amber eyes, knowing he was now at a disadvantage. No doubt Vargas had guards stationed outside this chamber; the cat was probably some kind of diabolical messenger, sent to find them. "I have been sent to kill you, once and for all," he stated hotly, feeling that the silence between them had gone on too long.

"Or else what? Will you lose your double-0 status?" Vargas' smirk was intolerable. Kirkland flashed up a fist to hit him, heedless of possible watching henchmen, and Vargas, quicker than lightning, caught him by the wrist.

The warmth of the man's hand shocked Triple Zero into halting. His thoughts began to scurry in circles, not settling; he then noticed that Vargas had dropped his wrist as though it were a poisonous snake. The amber eyes were confused as well.

This was the first time they'd ever had physical contact, Kirkland realized. Always before they had been separated by the width of a room, a Plexiglas window, the length of the barrel of a gun. But they were standing quite close to each other. Kirkland knew that if he exhaled sharply, Vargas would be able to feel it on his skin. He was completely distracted and didn't know how to proceed. All his long years of training seemed to have deserted him.

Yet Vargas made no move. This was also the first time 000 had ever seen him at a disadvantage. What sinister plans could the Italian be brewing this time?

"Come with me," the criminal demanded in a gruff tone, turning and walking towards the room's door. Kirkland followed automatically, not realizing until much later that this would have been the perfect opportunity to bump him off.

As they proceeded through the building's corridors, Triple Zero saw men and women busily working. None of them reacted as the two old enemies walked past. Every nerve in Arthur Kirkland's body was tingling, but he was a Double 0! He'd roll with the punches. Of his shredded trousers he thought nothing. He'd strip the classy clothes off dead Vargas, when his mission was complete, and saunter out of here wearing them instead.

Vargas stopped at a junction and turned, the amber eyes meeting his again. This was the first time the criminal had stopped to check their progress. He trusted Kirkland? A sobering thought.

Down a few more corridors, still not speaking, until Vargas stopped outside an unremarkable steel door. He put his eye to a retina scan device, which recognized him and slid the door open. "Enter," he told the agent.

Kirkland took a deep breath and entered. _All for Blighty_. He braced himself for whatever torture implements Vargas might choose to use here, and in any case, he still felt confident in his ability to physically overpower the brunet.

But the room was empty. Soundsoak panels covered the walls and carpet the floor, but otherwise there was nothing at all visible in this room, which was little more than closet-sized, about ten feet square with a single bare bulb burning overhead. "What's on your criminal agenda today, git?" he asked saucily. As long as the door could be opened from inside, he was now confident in his ability to complete the mission and get back to London.

"Have you ever – wondered," Vargas began, in a strange halting voice unlike his usual commanding manner, "why it is that you and I never seem to be able to defeat each other?"

"I've defeated you plenty of times. Seven times, to be exact." Kirkland spared a moment to recap all those times. "Yes, seven."

"But not the ultimate defeat." Was it his imagination, or was Vargas' voice deeper, more sonorous? Perhaps it was altered by the acoustical panels.

"You have had me at your mercy countless times, Vargas, but you always stand around blathering in front of your idiot henchmen, giving me time to plan an escape." Kirkland smirked a little, remembering that time at the criminal's Rome headquarters…

"I do not _blather!_" Vargas's fist flew towards the agent's face, but this time the blond was quick enough to stop him, grabbing him by the wrist just as the criminal mastermind had done to him. He felt the warmth of the man's skin, the sinews in the slender arm. Kirkland gave that arm a little yank, causing Vargas to stumble closer to him.

The two men were now face-to-face, about six inches of space between their bodies. Triple Zero, breathing a little more heavily than the exertion warranted, could feel the heat of the other man's body through his own clothing. His eyes met Vargas' and he saw the brunet swallow. "Kirkland," the Italian whispered hoarsely.

"Vargas." But instead of the cool, crisp response he'd intended, Arthur Kirkland's voice came out weak and trembling. "Why have you brought me to this little chamber?" he asked, forcing a note of command into his speech. "Do you expect me to talk, wanker?"

"No, bastard. I expect you to – kiss me."

000's eyes flew open as the criminal grabbed him by the back of the neck, yanking him forward and pressing their lips together. What the – ? But the Italian lips were warm, pliant; Kirkland forgot that this man was his archenemy and savored the touch of those lips on his, giving up all resistance and pulling Romano Vargas closer to him.

Neither spoke as kisses intensified; soon the agent felt warm hands carefully unzipping his white hoodie, pulling the hem of his t-shirt out of his trousers. Without losing contact with the Italian's mouth, he set about disrobing his companion as well. In a few seconds, it seemed, they'd shed every article of clothing and broke apart to appraise each other.

Vargas caved in first, drawing 000 flush against his body, kissing and stroking. Kirkland found himself reciprocating with a fierce intensity. The Italian's skin was as smooth as silk, warm, flawless; the firm pressure of his manhood against Kirkland's own was intoxicating.

Hands groping, tongues entangling, the two men, now naked, settled back onto the pile of clothing on the floor of the otherwise empty chamber. Speaking incoherent murmurs of desire they touched and fondled one another for a long time, pleasuring each other over and over. As the hours passed the agent lost count of the number of times he'd reached release, the number of times he'd brought Vargas to climax. He existed in a heightened dream state, aware only of the pressure of fingers and tongue on him, the hands in his hair…

Dimly in the back of Kirkland's mind he knew this encounter was a bad idea, which would bind him to the Italian in ways he'd never dreamed, and most likely leave him unable to complete his mission, but – but he didn't give a damn, right now. He'd take what pleasure he could from this man who had been his opponent for so long, and figure out what to do later on.

…

When they'd finally reached a respite, Kirkland pulled the Italian closer to get warm. "If you had searched for months for a way to disarm me, you couldn't have found a better way."

"Bastard. The thought never crossed my mind, until I touched you." Vargas ran his fingers through the blond hair.

"I'm sure you've succeeded in distracting me from the mission. I couldn't kill you after that. Not today, anyway." Kirkland felt a bit exposed, admitting that, but it was true; even if he could bring himself to kill the man, he wouldn't do it today. Couldn't.

"You've hammered home that same lesson to me." Vargas let go of him. "I dislike feeling so vulnerable, and yet – and yet – " He didn't go on, but Triple Zero understood.

But he responded in a disdainful tone. "I'm sure you have other ways of hurting me. Death is not always the best way to bring an enemy to his knees." Kirkland stared up into the ceiling. "Hidden cameras, filming this, so that you may send it back to MI6 for your amusement? I'd lose my job, possibly my citizenship, too, or maybe even my life."

"You're an idiot. You think I want all those bastards at MI6 – and probably all over the rest of the world, once it hits the news – to see me doing this? For such a famous agent you're a real birdbrain."

"Wanker." Here in this little room, alone with this man, Agent 000 felt safe, at least temporarily. This man was his dark equal. There was no reason to play coy, to pull rank or threaten. Once the door was open, however –

"But I wouldn't mind doing it again sometime," Vargas laughed. "I've often felt that you were the opposite side of the coin, for me. That I would struggle against you more than any other, that you were my goody-two-shoes equal, the only one who could take me down."

These thoughts were so close to Kirkland's own that he glanced over at those amber eyes, which held now no trace of mockery. "Then – what do we do now? Where do we go from here?" He was troubled, remembering his mission. "I'm not supposed to come back until you're dead and I can prove it."

"Don't go."

"What, stay here and be your – your _boy toy_?" Agent Triple Zero began laughing aloud. "Not bloody likely. Might as well ask you to give up your criminal proclivities and come live in a little flat in London while I jaunt around the world on missions."

Vargas laughed at that, too. "Yes. Either way it's unfair."

"Even if you gave up your work, MI6 would never believe me if I told them so. And if _you_ went and told them, they'd clap you in jail."

"Then I'll just have to move on," the Italian mused; Kirkland felt a little pang, at that. "I have a hideaway that no one else knows about. Not even my henchmen. Perhaps I'll go underground there, for a little while. Disband my operations and live in secret."

The agent considered this. "Might not be wise. All your employees must have a criminal bent as well. If you terminate their employment, it's just going to glut the world with new criminals. Might be better for you to keep your operation intact and give them red herrings to pursue." Kirkland now had no doubt that he could talk the redoubtable Vargas into his point of view. The Englishman was famous for his persuasive speech.

"Bullshit. Most of them are idiots. Local police can deal with them. Give them a heads-up; they'll take care of half of the bastards before they even leave the region." Vargas rolled over lazily, running his hand over the agent's abdomen. "Come away with me."

"And abandon my duties?"

"Your duty is to kill me, am I right? But you said you can't do that, and you're not supposed to come back until I'm dead. So, you're fucked. Come with me to my little hideaway. I promise I'll let you go when I'm through with you." He considered this sentence for a while. "Or whenever you want to go."

Kirkland took a deep breath and thought about this; Vargas took his hand away and let him think.

If he went back to HQ empty-handed, as it were, with Romano Vargas still on the loose, he'd get put on probation; his reputation would suffer.

If he killed Vargas, he could go back to HQ and get promoted, but his conscience would suffer. A conscience was a terrible thing for a spy to have, but he had one, and it was already troubling him about that idea.

If he escaped with the Italian, his reputation _might_ suffer. Or maybe – "Can we blow this place up?" he asked.

Vargas shrugged, unconcerned. "Sure, once everybody's safe away."

"Yeah, all right. Get them out of here, blow it up, we'll escape to your secret hideaway for a while. I can deal with that; M would probably consider that you and I had both died in the explosion, until one of us resurfaced."

"I'm not going to resurface, dammit. Not as a criminal. If they consider you're dead, they'll send somebody else after me. I don't want to bother. Let's just go."

Agent Triple Zero, Arthur Kirkland, rolled onto his side and slid a hand into the Italian's soft dark hair, tickling that one rebellious strand. "Yes, all right, git. Got a pair of trousers I can borrow?"

…

_A bazillion thanks to Ellenthefox who made a very simple comment about Romano as a sexy Bond villain, which led to this._


End file.
